Namaste
by lonelyriver
Summary: Serge doesn't understand why he keeps coming back for more. Serge/Terra!Gilbert.


**Disclaimer: ** I do not own Terra E/Toward the Terra, Kaze to Ki no Uta or any of the characters found therein.

**Beta-ed by:** Guinechan.

**Warnings:** Violent-ish impulses, and implied sex.

**Pairing(s):** Serge/Terra!Gilbert, with appearances by other characters and a strong dose of Matsuka (because I think he's precious).

**Rating:** T, I guess.

**Setting: ** Somewhere after Operation Slaughterhouse, but before Keith becomes a Senator.

**A/N:** My first (and probably only) offering to Terra. This series is insanely intimidating to write for. D: Also, I just realize that there are technically two Leos in this show. The one mentioned in this fic is obviously Kazeki!Leo.

* * *

_**Namaste**_

by Mikage

It began as a normal enough day, or so Matsuka thought.

The ship had required maintenance for weeks, but it was only during a brief lull in Mu activity that time could be spared for the necessary repairs and upgrades. The short hiatus was an unsatisfactory turn of events to Keith, but the rest of the crew could find nothing to complain about. They could all use a little rest and relaxation after the arduous schedules that had beleaguered them since the destruction of Silvester 7 and the onset of a Mu offensive.

Of course, rest and relaxation for Keith Anyan meant a day spent in rigorous training; Matsuka suspected he would soon be called in as an "assistant," and that he would be victim to an array of bruises and abrasions by the end of the day.

There could be no rest for the wicked.

Matsuka kept his back to his comrades as he prepared the morning's coffee, pretending to be interested in the slow trickle of hot water after it had passed through the freshly ground beans, filtering into the large pot. It was no more entertaining than staring into the vast expanse of space, but it kept him occupied until he left the room to report to Keith, coffee in hand, and he was able to remain sufficiently out of their way. To them, he was an outsider; he had no place among these elite soldiers.

"Is anyone else tired of seeing this broad's face on the news all the time?" he heard Kurt's loud question and resultant huff of annoyance.

Outsider he may be, but he'd still made sure to learn all of their names.

A group of them had taken to starting their mornings by lounging in the break room, spreading themselves over the couches and chairs in a variety of idle poses. A few spent their last few minutes off-duty flipping the pages of books or scrolling through their digital equivalents; the others ate their replicated breakfasts while affixing their eyes to the large monitor and searching for entertainment on one of the hundred-some-odd system-controlled channels.

"Careful," Pascal warned in a lazy drawl. "That broad happens to be friends with the Commander."

"The Commander has friends?"

Matsuka was sure that it was inappropriate to be amused by a comment like that, but he couldn't prevent the corners of his mouth from twitching up.

"They're well acquainted, either way," Carl said, revising Pascal's former description to something a bit more adequate.

"How well, do you think?" Kurt wondered. His voice had taken on a sly tone. Matsuka hoped he wasn't attempting to imply something vulgar.

"Not like that, you dolt," dark haired Leo replied, though it was obvious by his attempts to stifle his chuckling that he was amused by the idea as well. "You really think the _Commander_ has it in him to get with anyone, much less a girl like her? Come on, he's not an Elite for nothing."

"It might help him loosen up a bit," Angeline added.

"I'm sure you'd be willing to offer him your services," Leo joked provocatively.

Angeline gave no verbal response, but a pained 'oof' from Leo was enough for Matsuka to surmise that she'd managed to defend herself against his defamatory remarks.

The subject of their conversation changed to more appropriate things once Kurt changed the channel and Suena Dalton's face disappeared from the screen. Matsuka remained isolated by the coffee maker, but he didn't allow himself to be too concerned by his exclusion. It was easier this way, and safer in the long run. He was content on his own, focused as he always was on Keith's survival and wellbeing. He was happy simply to be in the same room with them without any feelings of animosity being directed toward him; in fact, the atmosphere they inhabited when not on duty was almost calming.

Provided, of course, that a specific member of their group was not in attendance.

Matsuka was pouring the hot, strong coffee into a mug when the door of the break room slid open and his mind was unintentionally inundated by a wave of frustration and a general feeling of unease. Confident as he was in his ability to infer which of his colleagues was the culprit, Matsuka needn't have turned, but he still found himself glancing over his shoulder in curiosity.

Serge stalked into the room with a sour look on his face. Matsuka could never really decide which he resembled more with an expression like that - a cold, vindictive young man, or an irritable child.

"Civilian clothes today?" Kurt observed as he tore his attention away from the television and turned to his friend and superior officer.

"I'm off duty." Serge's strained voice matched his agitated countenance.

"Since when?"

"Since I requested it."

Matsuka made himself look busy when Serge approached, though there was really nothing more for him to do to prepare Keith's coffee. He inched aside to allow Serge access to the pot, watching him out of the corner of his eye in what he hoped was an inconspicuous manner.

He often wondered what Serge thought of him, but wasn't brave enough to find out on his own. He hadn't missed the hostile glares and reserved attitude Serge had greeted him with on the Endymion. Since then, the animosity had morphed into grudging acceptance. Matsuka figured tolerance was better than nothing. He didn't know what had sparked the initial annoyance, but he'd considered that Serge might have viewed him as competition for Keith's favor and a deterrent to his duty as Keith's aid.

If he'd only known the truth, he surely would have seen him as nothing more than meaningless baggage, and overlooked him as an unnecessary distraction.

Serge was definitely the hardest of the bunch to figure out. The others were just as steadfast in seeing to their duties, but Serge's dedication was at an entirely different level than his subordinates. He had two distinctive faces, and Matsuka had grown accustomed to both. There was the face of the heartless Lieutenant, cold and ruthless and able to kill on command and feel no remorse, and then there was the face of what Matsuka could only describe as 'the boy.'

Serge had the kindest smile, almost childish in its sweetness, but it was completely at odds with the persona he typically utilized.

He watched Serge put together his coffee, and couldn't help but notice the vigorous way he stirred in the sugar and cream. Something was wrong with him, Matsuka decided. Serge was rarely this edgy, however irascible he often appeared.

"Are you okay?" he ventured to ask, turning to confront him timidly.

Serge spared him an impassive glance before raising his cup to take a long swig. "Fine," he said in-between gulps.

"Someone's in a mood," Kurt commented, leaning over the back of the couch. "What's your problem?"

"Nothing," Serge responded before returning to his drink.

"Right. Why so touchy then?"

Serge shot him a glare that would have been intimidating if he weren't in the midst of chugging his coffee the same way some men guzzled alcohol. When his beverage had been fully consumed, he set the cup down and made his way back to the door, which opened for him as he approached.

"I'm going down to the surface," he informed them, then disappeared behind the automatic door.

Matsuka looked after him, utterly confused by his strange behavior and swift departure.

"What's wrong with _him_?" Kurt asked in his place.

"You really have to ask?" Leo countered, leaning back against the couch with his hands pillowing his head.

"Obviously. What's the big deal?"

"What planet are we currently orbiting?" Pascal prodded in an attempt to help him.

Matsuka had no idea what the planet had to do with anything, unless it was Serge's home world, but Kurt seemed to take the hint after a few seconds of deep thought.

"Oh," he said, the disgruntled look on his face easing as realization dawned on him.

"Exactly," Pascal replied, then took the controller from him to change the channel to something more to his liking.

Matsuka almost asked for an explanation, but kept his curiosity to himself. It wasn't his place to go prying into other people's business, and Serge was in a bad enough mood already; he doubted Serge would appreciate being gossiped about on top of whatever else what bothering him. If Serge had wanted to talk, he would have given a more extensive response.

He was late, in any case. Keith would be angry by the delay, and it was going to be a long day.

* * *

The trip to the surface was much too short for Serge's liking. It felt as if he'd only spent seconds in the shuttle before arriving and being directed off of the landing tarmac. He almost turned back and returned to the ship, but something, some exasperating compulsion, had him leaving the shuttle port and entering the bustling city.

He felt unsettled without his uniform on, but couldn't have worn it without drawing attention to himself. The jeans, t-shirt and jacket were much less conspicuous and allowed him to blend in with the crowds. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone without his regimented red suit and high, black boots, and the comfort the uniformity provided him with. It was disconcerting to be without that protection, as the sheer reputation the uniform had attained was enough to have people drawing back a respectable distance. Without it, he was just another one of the thousands of common men and women traversing the busy streets.

As if to make up for it, he'd taken his gun with him, and had it hidden discreetly beneath his civilian clothing.

Serge walked around aimlessly at first, distracting himself by observing the shop windows and their decorative displays of items he didn't intend to buy. He avoided eye contact with the civilians, letting them go about their business as he went about his, circling the same few blocks in one direction, before turning around to circle again in the other. He kept his head bent down, his shoulders hunching as he buried his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His fingers would alternatively curl into his palms, then relax to fiddle with an invisible imperfection in the fabric of his clothes.

After at least an hour of steadfastly avoiding his destination, Serge finally came to a stop in front of one of the buildings and glanced up at the bland façade. It looked no different than all the other buildings in the area, but the large sign advertised its purpose. Serge watched as a few patrons entered the complex, keeping himself off to the side so as not to get in their way. He didn't recognize any of them, but then he didn't expect to. He couldn't remember much of anything prior to his adult examination, and the only inhabitant of this world that he was familiar with should already be inside.

He lingered for a few moments more, pacing the expanse of a small section of sidewalk, before coming to the inevitable decision and crossing through the sliding doors.

He was greeted by a young woman in a blue shirt, with the establishment's name written in small letters on one side of her chest. He slid his membership card out of the back pocket of his jeans before she could request it, swiping it through the scanner in order to be admitted further into the building. The air was regulated and kept at a pleasantly cool temperature, but Serge could still detect the scent of sweat.

The gym was decently populated. A few people had taken residence on the treadmills and bikes, but there was an equal number of people on the bench presses or lifting weights. Serge spent little time watching them, merely spared them a quick glance before heading toward the back of the gym.

He came to a stop at a wall of windows looking in on a room of mirrors with a polished wood floor. Inside, a group of men and women posed on colored mats, their feet spread wide as they bent over one leg, a hand braced on one of their ankles as they sent the other high into the air, their heads turned to gaze up the lengths of their arms. Serge's eyes scanned through them all, until his vision settled on a slight figure winding his way through the room of contorted bodies.

Their instructor was a young man, petite and blond, with a fearless gaze and a vivacious energy. He went around the room, correcting their poses with slim but steady hands, smiling enchantingly as he led them into their next positions. Serge couldn't hear his voice through the glass, but his mind was quick to supply him with a suitable memory of the sensual sounds that fell from that tantalizing mouth.

The blond carefully adjusted another man's posture, then moved to the opposite side of the room. His journey took him passed the large windows, and he paused to look through them, his sights coming to rest upon his spectator.

Serge's stomach did an odd and painful twist when their eyes met. In seconds he was thrust back in time, as his memories of his days on the education station consumed him. Late nights spent studying for an exam in astrophysics, the distracting kisses and bold caresses of a hand too experienced for a fourteen year old boy. Eyes that held the heat of promise, the struggle of repressing unnecessary but exhilarating desire, then disappointment and loneliness when their paths led them in two different directions. There was anger and accusation for introducing him to something best to be controlled and contained, but also affection, and a fierce need to protect.

The instructor had turned away by the time Serge came back to himself. He returned to the front of the room, and took his place on a spare mat, demonstrating a move that sent his backside high into the air.

Serge swallowed heavily, then frowned and looked away.

He'd moved to lean against the wall by the windows by the time the class ended, keeping his eyes firmly focused on the ground as the room emptied. His hands were balled into fists in his pockets, his brow furrowed and his jaw firmly set, his heart beating out a steady rhythm within his chest.

He wanted to leave. He wanted to go back to the ship, put on his uniform, and take orders from the Commander. He wanted to destroy a fleet of space pirates or hunt down the Mu, anything to keep himself away from the young man who, in a matter of seconds, would exit the room and find him waiting there.

"Serge."

And he wanted to stay. He wanted to stay and experience all the things that, as a subject devoutly loyal to the system, he should deny.

Serge took a deep breath to steady himself, though he knew the attempt was made in vain. He was never steady, or sure, or detached enough when it came to this young man. It had been impossible when they were fourteen, and it was impossible now. Unsettled but trying desperately to hide it, Serge pushed himself off of the wall to greet his companion. "Gilbert."

The smile that spread across his pale face was both joyous and sly. "It's been months," he said, tilting his head to the side enticingly, so that one side of his neck was bared while his bangs obscured an eye.

"I've been busy."

"Right. Kissing your commander's ass. You were always good at that."

Serge didn't deign his insult with a response. He stiffened noticeably, but did not allow himself to speak.

"So good of you to drop by now."

"I was in the area."

"Were you?" Gilbert wondered, arching his thin brows into a look that could have either been interested or patronizing.

Serge did his best to ignore his condescending tone, even as his hands clenched even tighter in his pockets. "How have you been?"

"Well. And you?"

"Fine," he replied, and offered no further explanation. Gilbert had lost the right to confidential information years ago, when he'd decided that the life of an Elite was no life for him.

There was a brief moment of silence. Gilbert continued to look at him in that beguiling way of his, the way no one else ever had or would. In a system of such a carefully controlled society, Gilbert was an extremely rare individual. He never went against the system outright, but he questioned it enough to insult Serge's sense of duty and commitment, and he knew things about desire that, if discovered, would probably not be left unpunished.

Gilbert was merely lucky that he'd never shared his knowledge with anyone but Serge - at least as far as Serge was aware - and that Serge's friends were too loyal to him to speak of it to anyone else.

"How long do you have?" Gilbert asked.

"Just the afternoon."

If he spent any more time on a world that should mean nothing to him, the wrong people would begin to become suspicious, and then all this would be over before he was ready to let it go.

Gilbert's smile widened at the response, but his eyes changed, darkening with something that could have been disappointment. "Long enough," he said and shouldered his mat, rolled up and bound by a colored strap.

Serge didn't allow himself to react, the same way that he didn't allow himself to believe that this was anything more than it'd always been. From the moment they'd met, Gilbert had done everything he could to get under his skin, teasing him, cajoling him, pushing him away, pulling him closer, then leaving him the moment Serge thought he might understand what it was they shared between them.

He didn't understand it now. He didn't know why he saw him at every opportunity, scarce as they were, when his visits did nothing more than leave him angry and frustrated. To Gilbert, this seemed to be no more than a game; how far could he take this before Serge finally put an end to it? How much could he make him question, how much could he make him want, how long until he made Serge regret choosing the path of an Elite?

Gilbert said nothing further, simply showed him another inviting smile before turning to make his way to the front of the building. Serge stayed behind, watching Gilbert's retreating back as he struggled between his desires and his duty. In the end, he followed, and they left the gym together.

"You're still doing this?" he wondered, coming up beside the slighter figure as they traveled the sidewalk.

"Doing what?" Gilbert asked, turning to him with a questioning glance.

"This," Serge clarified, motioning toward his mat.

"I happen to like it."

"You like teaching people how to stretch?"

"It's not about the stretching," Gilbert informed him. "It's about the breathing."

Serge frowned at him, not too sure he believed him. "It didn't seem that way to me, the way you were showing off."

Gilbert's smile was devilish. "I had an audience," he said. "It's not my fault you decided to watch."

"I wasn't watching."

"You watched long enough to make yourself angry," Gilbert inferred. "It's liberating, Serge. That's why I like it. Of course, I'm sure you don't know much about liberation."

Serge tried to ignore the purposeful dig at his blind faith in the system, but he couldn't stop his jaw from tensing.

"You're angry," his companion observed. "You're angry now the same way you were then. You can't stand the fact that I gave up the chance to have what you have, and do what you do, for this."

"You could have been an Elite," Serge told him, his throat tightening around his words.

"Why don't you say what you really mean? I could have been with you."

Serge refused to look at him, glaring into the crowd of people in front of them instead. His nails dug painfully into his palms as his fists clenched in his pockets once again, and his stomach gave an agonizing lurch. He would not admit, to himself or anyone else, that Gilbert was right.

Silence stifled their conversation again, and this time Serge made no attempt to maintain their verbal discourse. There wasn't any point; they would never be able to force themselves to agree with the other. Serge was too devoted, and Gilbert was too stubborn in his dissent.

They walked together, meandering through the throngs of normal citizens. They wasted no time in discussing their destination; they both knew where they intended to go, just as they both knew the quickest route to take to get there. Gilbert never looked at him, but Serge often found himself glancing to his left, as if to remind himself that Gilbert was there.

Gilbert hadn't changed much since their days at the education station - still blond, still slight, still pale - but occasionally there were little differences, and Serge liked to focus on them in the hopes that something would counteract Gilbert's appeal, only nothing ever did. His hair had grown a little longer since he'd seen him last, curling at his neck and falling in waves around his face, and his shoulders, bared by the thin sleeves of his white gym shirt, were pink from the sun.

Everything else was exactly as he remembered, and his attraction to him - physical? emotional? - never lessened.

Fifteen minutes later, they paused at the entrance of a residential complex, where Gilbert entered a code to open the front doors. Serge waited for him, then followed him inside. From there, it was up two floors, then after the slide of a key they were in Gilbert's apartment.

Serge needn't have looked around, familiar enough with the layout already, but habit induced him to conduct a quick survey. Bare walls, simple furniture, and a small, spotless kitchen he doubted Gilbert ever used. If it weren't for the few pairs of shoes that littered the floor, or the stray article of clothing hanging over the back of a chair, he would have thought the unit was unoccupied. Gilbert had never been one to remain cooped up inside; he used his apartment to sleep and store his things, but for the most part he spent his time elsewhere.

"Not as impressive as your starship, I'm sure," Gilbert said, propping his mat in the corner by the door. He bent to pull his shoes off, leaving them where they fell, then paraded down the hall toward his bedroom.

Serge did not respond. He remained by the door for a few moments, struggling with himself yet again. His mind told him to leave, to turn and run before Gilbert could pull him any closer, to go back to the ship and throw himself into his duties; his heart told him to stay, to let Gilbert lead him as he had before, and show him all the things he shouldn't want or feel.

It was his feet that made the decision for him, carrying him after Gilbert while his thoughts remained conflicted, as his body yearned for what only Gilbert could give him.

He entered the bedroom to see Gilbert's bare back as he gracefully pulled his shirt over his head. The move left his hair disheveled, but with a quick shake of his head, the shining strands were back in place, and Gilbert faced him with the alluring expression he was so good at employing.

"I knew you would come," he said, moving closer and grabbing Serge by the open halves of his jacket. He led him back, step-by-step to the bed, until the edge of the mattress met the back of his thighs. "You always do."

"I won't anymore," Serge insisted. Unfortunately, his voice lacked the confidence to make it believable.

"I think that's what you said the last time, but here you are."

"We're leaving this star system soon."

"To do what?"

Serge almost replied, but stopped himself before he could reveal any classified information. He glared at Gilbert for almost making him slip up, and shut his mouth around his reply.

"It doesn't matter," Gilbert eventually said, lifting his hand to Serge's hair. "You could be gone for weeks, months, years. Either way, you'll still come back. Do you know why?" he asked, twisting a curl around one of his thin fingers.

When Serge didn't answer, Gilbert leaned in to whisper into his ear, his voice no more than a sultry purr. "Because you need me."

"I don't," Serge denied, swallowing down a lump in his throat.

"You do," Gilbert persisted, his lips deliberately brushing against the side of his face.

"I came to see how you're doing."

"Don't make me laugh," Gilbert said, chuckling in amusement. He pulled back enough to look Serge in the eye, his hands sliding over his shoulders, pushing his jacket off to drag it down his arms. "What's this?" he asked, removing Serge's gun from its hiding spot. He wielded it in one hand, inspecting it curiously, before meeting Serge with a smirk. "Are you really so afraid of me?"

In an instant, Serge grabbed onto his wrist and forced it back, loosening Gilbert's grip on his gun so that he dropped it to the floor, where it remained, harmless. "I'm tired of your games, Gilbert," he snapped.

If Gilbert was intimidated by his anger, he didn't show it. "I'm not playing any games," he countered. Instead of leaning away from Serge's fury, he set himself closer to it. "You're the one who keeps lying to yourself about why you're here, when you and I both know what you really want."

"I'm an Elite," Serge reminded him, though even he had to admit it sound more like he was trying to remind himself. "I'm above this."

"That's exactly where I want you," Gilbert agreed with a wicked grin. "Above me."

Serge shut his eyes against him, his hands shaking with the strain of holding himself back. Gilbert's laughter echoed within his mind, taunting him with its awareness.

"You try so hard to be exactly like your commander, don't you?" Gilbert shrewdly presumed. "So cold, so unaffected by everything."

Serge could feel the warmth of Gilbert's breath on his face, and the soft skin of his palm as it rose to cup his jaw.

"Everyone always says he's so perfect," he continued. "He's what we should all aspire to be. He'll continue to rise higher and higher, and you'll be there, right beside him, won't you? Just like I'll always be here, waiting for you, knowing that you'll come back no matter what you say to deny it, because your loyalty will only get you so far, Serge."

Serge's hand tightened on Gilbert's wrist as he swallowed down his contradictions.

"You want me," Gilbert said against his neck, his lips caressing the skin with every word he spoke. "You won't ever give me up, and because of that you'll never be like him."

With the utterance of that undeniable truth, Serge could no longer control his impulses. In his rage and frustration, he grabbed Gilbert and forced him onto the bed, pinning his arm down with the hand still on his wrist, while his free hand pressed against his slender neck. Gilbert met his look of madness without fear, laughing unrestrainedly as he slung an arm around him and pulled him close, ending their dispute with a violent mashing of lips, and tongues, and teeth.

He gave in, as he always did, as he'd known he would when he'd made the decision to come to the surface. Their clothes were soon scattered around the room, his jacket hanging precariously over the edge of the bedside table, covering the alarm clock and knocking a bottle of pain reliever to the floor, Gilbert's fitted pants in a heap at the foot of the bed. He lost his shirt, and his jeans, and his shoes, and twined his body with Gilbert's, kissing, touching, pressing skin to skin, until there was no room left between them.

He hated Gilbert even as he found pleasure in his breathy moans and grasping hands. He hated Gilbert for making him want, for introducing him to desire and making him one of its hapless victims. He hated him for leaving, for not staying with him, for not trying harder, for choosing this life of stretching and foolish poses over a life of meaning. He hated him for making him regret, and hope, and feel.

Most of all he hated himself, for falling into Gilbert's trap, and for wanting him more than he wanted to be the next Keith Anyan.

When it was over and they'd both been satisfied, Serge lay on Gilbert's bed amidst stained and rumpled sheets. He stared at the empty ceiling, torn between contentment and despondency. Once again he'd failed to resist; once again he'd had his weaknesses and imperfections revealed to him.

Gilbert lay against him, his hair tickling the side of Serge's neck as he rested his head against his shoulder and played a finger over his chest. "You try too hard," he said, tilting his head to press a kiss onto his collarbone.

"I don't try hard enough," Serge corrected him, keeping his gaze focused up. "The system represses desire."

"Obviously not," Gilbert observed, and for once his tone lacked its teasing quality.

"I shouldn't need this."

"But you do," Gilbert replied, pushing himself up onto his elbow to look into his eyes. "Humans live and breathe desire. It's how we're meant to be."

"It isn't-"

Gilbert stopped him before he could continue, putting a finger over his lips before replacing it with his mouth. "This is normal. This is human nature, Serge."

He couldn't agree, if only because he'd spent the years since his adult examination forcing himself to believe otherwise. Gilbert didn't seem to care whether or not they reached an agreement; he would always be confident in the knowledge that he was right, while Serge was left to pick up the pieces of his shattered reality.

Gilbert rose with a sigh, climbing out of bed and retrieving his underwear to slide them up his legs.

Serge almost pulled him back, but let him go with a small frown. "What are you doing?" he asked.

Gilbert turned to him and took him by the arm, pulling him up to join him. "Come with me."

"What are you doing?" he asked again.

"Just come with me."

Serge searched for his own underwear and found them by the door leading to the bathroom. He hastily pulled them on, then followed Gilbert out of the room.

Gilbert went to the front door and retrieved the mat he'd discarded earlier, carrying it with him into the living room. He pushed the coffee table out of the way, then unrolled his mat in the empty space he'd created.

"You need to relax," he eventually explained.

Serge looked at him skeptically, unsure how this was supposed to help. "I don't have a mat."

"Lucky for you I have a spare."

Soon Gilbert had retrieved another mat from the coat closet, spreading it out a couple of feet away from his own. Serge waited for him, standing by the couch without any idea of what to do, before moving to the second mat when he was directed to do so.

"Sit," Gilbert instructed, and demonstrated the proper position.

They began slowly, with an exercise to slow and control their breathing. It wasn't as easy as it seemed, but Gilbert was patient and coached him along until he had the proper rhythm. At first, Serge wasn't sure how it was supposed to help - how much could breathing differently actually do for his mood? - but with Gilbert guiding him in a soothing tone, he soon felt his stress slipping away. It bled from him, escaping with each exhalation, until his mind was blissfully empty.

Gilbert conducted the routine from beginning to end, leading him into a range of different poses, relieving pressure in his joints, and stretching muscles he'd hardly known he had. They did lunges and backbends, some moves that had their legs spread wide or their limbs raised into the air, and others that saw them standing still, finding a tranquil center as they balanced on one foot, then the next. Through it all, their breathing remained the same - in, then out, in, then out. Serge saw nothing but Gilbert's body contorting into poses he did his best to emulate, and felt nothing but a pleasant burn in his muscles, the steady beating of his heart, and the rush of air in and out of his lungs.

They ended on their backs, arms by theirs sides and hands facing the ceiling. Serge's eyes closed loosely, and he felt himself drifting, almost as if in sleep. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt quite this calm, and had no clue as to how an exercise like this could possibly help him achieve it, but he thought he was beginning to understand why Gilbert found it so appealing.

Even in the vastness of space, or the confusion of a conflicted mind, there could be peace.

After a while, he heard Gilbert moving, but was too comfortable to rise just yet. It was only when he felt Gilbert's lips softly covering his that he opened his eyes to see him.

"Namaste," Gilbert concluded in a soft whisper, and smiled a gentle smile that Serge rarely saw.

_I honor the place in you in which the entire Universe dwells, I honor the place in you which is of Love, of Integrity, of Wisdom and of Peace. When you are in that place in you, and I am in that place in me, we are One._

_

* * *

_Matsuka was back in the break room that night, preparing another pot of coffee. His body ached from a day of physical exertion - avoiding Keith's careful aim was no easy task - and his mind felt numb and foggy from an overuse of energy. He would have liked to rest, and would have sought out the comfort of his bed if Keith weren't expecting to have a hot cup of coffee after his evening conference with Grand Mother.

Tomorrow, the repairs on the ship would be complete, and they would be returning to the daily grind of tracking down and exterminating the Mu.

"We should have days like this more often," Kurt declared, back to lounging on the couch with the television controller at hand, listlessly going through the channels.

"Somehow I don't think the Commander would agree with you," Pascal commented, looking over the data for their next mission.

"Even the Commander needs a break."

Matsuka was of the same opinion, but couldn't bring himself to share his thoughts with Keith. He had a feeling it would only result in a barked command and a few carefully placed insults about his weaknesses and abnormalities.

The door opened with a quiet swish, effectively cutting off the conversation.

"Serge!" Kurt called out a greeting. "Back already?"

"We're leaving tomorrow, and I told the Commander I'd be back by tonight."

"You really think he'd know if you weren't back until morning? It's not like he goes around the ship calling roll."

"Of course he'd know. I have to report back to him later."

Matsuka couldn't help but notice the change in Serge's attitude, even if he'd yet to turn and observe him. He spoke much more easily, and his voice didn't sound nearly as strained as it had that morning. The air he gave off was one of serenity, when before he'd been decidedly hostile.

"So is everything okay?" Carl carefully asked.

"Yeah, everything's fine," Serge replied, and this time he sounded as if he meant it.

Matsuka was considering the possible influences to Serge's change of mood when the Lieutenant approached him.

"Do you mind?" he asked kindly enough, motioning to the pot of coffee.

Matsuka shook his head, handing it to him in bewilderment.

"Thanks," Serge said as he took it from him.

In the brief moment that their hands touched, Matsuka was granted a peak into Serge's mind. It was a confusing mixture of images and feelings - green eyes, acceptance, a devious smile, bare skin, and something indescribable, but warm and uplifting. The fragmented memories disappeared the moment his hand slipped away, but the warmth lingered in his chest, replacing the aching sting of a paralyzer gun.

"What?" Serge inquired, pausing in the process of pouring coffee into a mug.

Matsuka realized he must have been staring. "Nothing," he said, hoping he did well enough in containing his bafflement. He smiled shyly, and moved his head in a nervous motion to shake some of his bangs out of his eyes.

Serge's placid expression changed for only a moment, his mouth forming a small frown as his brow twitched. He looked at Matsuka and seemed to be studying him carefully, before returning to his coffee, pouring in the sugar and cream, and stirring sedately.

"You remind me of someone," he said once he was done, handing the pot back to him. Matsuka was sure not to let their hands touch more than was necessary.

"Oh?" he wondered, even more confused. He tried not to sound too curious as he asked, "Who?"

Serge studied him again, looking him up and down. There was something in his eyes that Matsuka couldn't identify, but he thought it might be loneliness. "No one," Serge finally replied, and lifted his shoulders into a shrug.

Matsuka watched Serge as he turned away, feeling just as confused now as he had that morning.

"I'm going to the firing range," Serge announced as he made his way to the door. "Who wants to come with me?"

Kurt was the first to rise, followed closely by Pascal and Carl.

Matsuka was left alone in the silent break room, staring at the door as he tried to wrap his mind around the Lieutenant's behavior. He felt like he was missing something important, but couldn't figure out what it could possibly be.

He jumped, started, when his comm-badge alerted him to a call.

"Matsuka!" came Keith's impatient reproach.

"Yes, sir?"

"Coffee!"

"Yes, sir!"

**The End**


End file.
